


the place I stop and you begin

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It has already been used several times."</i>
  <br/>
  <span class="small">      - Info text for the Bandage</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the place I stop and you begin

**Author's Note:**

> _(as if just being alive was more than enough_ – almost soft)
> 
>  
> 
> this takes place pretty early in the game but there's still spoilers for endgame stuff in here, so if you haven't cleared the game yet this is your cue to scram!! makes gentle shooing motions
> 
> in addition to self harm references, there's some talk about suicide & other mental illness stuff in here (intrusive thoughts etc)

This is something like the fifth time you’ve messed up this stupid puzzle, and your teeth are rattling in your skull as you try to pull yourself to your feet to dust off. You have got leaves stuck absolutely everywhere: In your hair, down your shirt, in your pants, wedged into your shoes, horrible and scratchy against your ankles. Your best black tights have got runs in them and you think you’ve dropped your candy. You’ve still got your stick, and somehow you’ve managed not to break your phone, but this is no consolation at all.

Toriel is going to be so mad. You should have stayed put and waited for her—it was just that she was taking so _long_ and you were bored and curious. Even if you snuck back to the hallway where she told you to wait, you’re all scratched up—you’ll never be able to convince her that you were obediently listening to directions.

“Are you _actually_ crying,” says the voice in your head, dripping with impatience and disgust.

 _“No,”_ you retort, and try to sniff the snot and tears back. You aren’t! Yet.

The voice sighs, irritated. “You are so _bad_ at this. Let me do it. This puzzle’s easy.”

“I’ll do it myself,” you say, and blink a lot.

Honestly, you’d love to let them take care of the puzzle for you. Falling is scary right now, and you’re frustrated enough to actually cry for real if you get it wrong even one more time. But you don’t trust that voice—Chara, they said their name is. From the sound of them they’re only a kid like you, but every time you run into a monster they react with hostility and urge you to kill them. They’d do it, if you let them, and that certainty sits in the pit of your stomach like you’ve swallowed a rock.

You don’t know why they’re in your head. They’ve been there since you woke up in the flower patch, though. You should be wondering if you’ve finally just gone crazy, but somehow—instinctively—you know that they’re separate from you, that they’re real. They sound nothing like the bad thoughts you get sometimes, the impulses to do things you know you shouldn’t.

But even if you asked them who they are, you don’t think they’d tell you. They’re way too busy being mean.

Case in point: “Well, if you’re going then _go,”_ they snap at you. “Don’t want the old woman finding you like this, do we?”

You sniff again and shake yourself off.

Or—you try. Your wrist, your bad one, twangs. Pain shoots through it, all the way up to the elbow, and you fold your lip in between your teeth and very carefully don’t scream.

It’s because of all the falling. You keep putting your hands out to catch yourself, to try to shield your head, even though you ought to know better. Your palms are raw with scraped skin, but this is much worse.

You pull your right sleeve back and make a face: Your bandage is coming undone _again,_ all tangled up in itself. Too loose. But the last time you tried to pull it tight your fingers went all pins and needles, then numb, and you’re scared to do it that way again. And besides, you don’t even know how to fold it anymore without layering the bloody parts back over your wound.

Carefully, you sit back down, resigned to having to pick at the thing for another ten or fifteen minutes _again._ You’ve only just rolled your sleeve up to your elbow, though, when:

“Give that here,” says Chara. You guess it really was too much to hope for that they’d stay quiet. “I’ll fix it, that’ll take you way too long.”

Their words sink in a second late, and all your annoyance disperses: “Huh?” is all you manage to say.

And then—it’s the weirdest sensation in the world. Sort of a combination of being shouldered out of your chair without the shock of falling on your butt, and what you think it’d feel like to be a cooked clam getting popped out of its shell. Suddenly you’re floating, observing your body from a distance, even though you’re still seeing out of your own two eyes.

Chara props your elbow up on your knee, hand held up before your face. They hook your fingers in between the loose bandage strips and pull at a few of them briskly, unraveling the whole thing. They’re a whole lot defter than you would be—practice, maybe, but you think that when they had their own body (they must have had one, right? You’re not _positive_ but you’re still so sure that they’re human like you) they were probably left-handed.

They draw breath sharply, hold the air in your lungs for a moment before breathing out. They’re turning your wrist this way and that, appraising the bruises, the half-scabbing along the cut.

 _Here we go,_ you think, and hunch your shoulders in. Or—not really, because your real shoulders don’t move at all, but it still feels like that’s what you’re doing. This body-sharing thing is getting confusing.

But—incredibly—if there’s something Chara wants to say, they hold it in. Instead they keep your hand up in the air as they finger your bandage, you think trying to find a clean enough place to use.

“It’s the only one I have,” you say, kind of defensive.

“I can tell,” Chara replies, tone of voice weirdly neutral. Their words are only for you; seems like they don’t have to actually move your mouth to talk to you, just like you don’t have to physically speak to talk to them. “There’ll be places where you can wash it, here. Might want to look into that, when you get the chance.”

That raises so many questions you don’t even know what to ask first. Do they know this place? How? Just who are they, really? But Chara doesn’t give you the chance to ask anything: They’ve laid the bandage over your wrist and are wrapping it and your hand up, pinching the cloth between your fingers, or between the back of your hand and your knee, or in your mouth sometimes too. You taste iron, dirt, and sweaty cloth. Yuck.

But then they’re tucking the end of the bandage in underneath itself, and clenching and unclenching your hand experimentally. Pain tugs at the tendons of your wrist, and you swear you can already see the cloth starting to stain, but the bandage is miraculously snug. It doesn’t shift, it doesn’t pinch, you can still properly feel your fingers even when Chara shakes out your whole arm.

You think they have to’ve done this before.

“It’s not perfect,” they say, “but it should do for a little while. Try not to undo it too much while you’re being bad at puzzles.”

“Um, thanks, I think?” you answer.

A brief silence, just long enough to be awkward.

“Look,” and then Chara is again weirdly quiet. You can’t help but notice again that when they’re inhabiting your body, your breathing naturally syncs up to their internal monologue. It’s bizarre, almost like you’re the uninvited passenger here. “Kid…”

“It’s _Frisk,”_ you tell them.

“Frisk,” they say. And they hesitate a third time. Finally: “It doesn’t really work this way. Uh. I think you can tell by now, but. You have to do it up and down or else you’ll just bleed a lot but not enough, and it’ll hurt.”

Your head fills with a strange buzzing. It’s like you’re even further away. The rock that was in your stomach has relocated to your chest, and your phantom mouth is dry. You’re embarrassed, a little, and mad, and—sorry. Really horribly sorry. You bet—it’s just a feeling, but you bet that Chara feels exactly the same way.

Chara is quiet for a while longer, and apropos of nothing you feel as though you’ve been gently set down. Your lungs—your real lungs—obey you when you breathe in (Chara was in the middle of breathing out, and so you get mixed up a little and cough). They’ve given you control back.

There’s a brief feeling of warmth over your back and your shoulder. Almost like someone who’s really bad at hugs is trying to hug you one-armed.

You sniffle a little and hastily scrub your face with the back of your hand. It’s quiet. You pick leaves out of your shoes for a little bit.

Back in their corner of your head, they sigh. “C’mon, Frisk. Were we going somewhere or weren’t we?”

 _We._ You have to wipe your face again. They’re abrasive about it still, but—they’re actually being sort of kind. It feels weird, sort of ticklish. You want to ask them why they’re being so nice to you just because of this, but you don’t think they’d answer you honestly.

What you do know is that if they weren’t just a voice in your head—if they were a real kid and sitting beside you—you’d want to hold their hand right now. Just like with Toriel.

Chara makes a huffing sound, and the moment’s ruined. “Come _on,_ Frisk. Move your stupid butt already. And do _not_ make me regret letting you have control again.”

That actually sounds like a threat, so you push yourself up on shaky feet. “Yeah, I’m going, I’m going.”

You take another look around the room, at the path through the leaves. Take a deep breath. The exhale trembles less. You can do this, if you concentrate.

And even if Chara’s weird moment of kindness was just their being fickle, you _do_ feel a lot better now. Toriel’s not calling you angrily yet, so she hasn’t discovered that you’re missing. That means there’s still time to explore. This is an adventure, you remind yourself. There isn’t time to waste standing around being scared and self-pitying.

 _“Frisk,”_ Chara says, dragging your name out like it’s something pointed.

“Shush,” you tell them. “You’re distracting me.”

One last look around the room is all you allow yourself. You test the bandages for yourself, then close your hand around your stick for comfort. When you turn to face the stairs, it’s with a fast hold on your determination.


End file.
